


by the phase of the moon

by IceisAwesome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Canon-Typical Violence, Catelyn Lives, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, King Stannis, Minor Character Death, Mix of book and show, Older Sansa Stark, POV Multiple, Queen Sansa, Robb Lives, Werewolf Sansa Stark, Werewolves, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 12:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18334436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceisAwesome/pseuds/IceisAwesome
Summary: A rare few Starks have the old gods gift: the ability to change into a wolf. Sansa was not supposed to be one of them, yet she finds herself trapped in the body of a wolf after the Blackwater burns. Meanwhile, Stannis Baratheon sets out to investigate the impossible rumors of a direwolf on Dragonstone.Or, the fix-it fic where Sansa is a werewolf and it changes the course of the War of the Five Kings.





	1. Chapter 1

Shae is silent as she begins to lace up her corset, but Sansa is content to enjoy the rare moment of peace, letting silence reign as the handmaiden continues her work.

Catching a glimpse of the sun rising through her window, her thoughts begin to drift again to the coming battle.

Father had praised Lord Stannis the one time he’d spoke of him. He’d claimed the man honorable and just, yet she is not reassured. Once she thought her father invincible, once she thought him the best of men. But he trusted King Robert just as she trusted Cersei.

Now she is trapped, a hostage in all but name, and her father is dead.

 _Perhaps poor judgement runs in the family_ , a bitter part of her mutters as Shae finishes her work and tugs on the corset. Thankfully the sting it brings is enough to stop the now familiar melancholy from returning.

Still looking out the window, she watches as the servants and soldiers scurry around, as men shout orders and boys hurry to follow them.

“Shae?”

“Yes, m’lady?”

“Do you think Lord Baratheon will win the battle?”

It’s near treason to even think those words, something Joffrey would have her beaten for. But Shae has never lied to her and she needs such honesty.

“I don’t know,” her handmaiden admits, voice gentle as she helps Sansa shrug her dress on. “Wars are tricky things, and the tide of a battle turns as often as not.”

“I pray my beloved Joffrey wins,” is her response, the lie coming easily to her lips even in private. She will not risk someone overhearing, not after Shae had cupped her face and told her no one could be trusted.

Her handmaiden only hums, brush tugging at her hair, and for a moment Sansa can pretend she is far away. For a moment she can pretend she is back in Winterfell as mother combs through her hair.

Then Shae tugs just a touch too hard and the moment is ruined, and then she is back in the present. Back where Winterfell is lost to her, where she will never see her mother again.

 _I am not a wolf any longer_ , Sansa thinks as she watches the sun, _Just a stupid little girl in a gilded cage._

* * *

Cersei is clearly drunk, the sour stench of wine thick in the air. It is all she can do to ignore it and focus on the woman’s words.

 _Little Dove,_  the queen calls her, voice as mocking as ever, and Sansa stays still and silent as a mouse, hoping against hope it will be enough.

The queen seems to take her silence as consent, though, and Cersei leans in as she drinks the wine handed to her, a sneer on her face.

“When a man’s blood is up-” the queen nearly giggles then, swaying just slightly, and oh, she has never hated her more. “Anything with tits will look good.”

“A precious thing like you…” the queen starts, reaching out to touch her hair in a mockery of a mother’s caress, “will look very, very good.”

She wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to reach out and scratch the crazed smile off Cersei’s face until blood runs down her gown and beautiful gold hair. 

Instead she smiles weakly and drinks her wine, gaze lingering on the bright moon outside. 

* * *

There is panic in the air. 

Watching numbly, Sansa drains her goblet as ladies flutter about, as women scream and girls cry.

Ilyn Payne moves closer to the queen, hand ever present on his sword, and her composure breaks.

The numbness is replaced by a queer feeling as her heart starts hammering in her ears, as blood rushes through her veins and her throat feels as though it’s about to burst.

She can’t breathe.

_She can’t breathe._

A piercing pain comes quick, startling her, and she looks down to see pinpricks of blood welling from scratches on the palm of her hand. Slowly curling her hands closed, she can feel the blood sticky on her fingers, can feel the sting as the cuts ooze.

Without thinking she rises from the chair, lurching as she already moves to the door, desperate to wash the blood away.

“And where are you going, little dove?” The queen calls out, drunk but unfortunately still well aware of her surroundings.

Pausing and panicking, a desperate thought comes to her, and she turns to Cersei with a look of helpless panic.

“I-my moon blood-” Sansa gestures to her dress and the queen takes the hint, mouth creasing in disgust.

“Go on then,” Cersei waves a hand dismissively, and she moves to flee before the queen clears her throat behind her.

“The guards will escort you.”

* * *

The Lannister guards flank her as Sansa hurries back to her room, hands clutched in her dress to hide her still bleeding palms.

Moving to close the door behind her, she is stopped by a gloved hand against the door, looking up at one of the guards.

“Ser, this is highly improper-” she starts, fear suddenly coiling in her belly. Sansa always thought the betrothal would at least protect her from this, but perhaps not. Perhaps even the lowest of Lannister men are as vile as Joffrey always was.

“The queen said to watch you,” the guard replies with a leer, hand still on the door, and Sansa’s eyes flick up to the other one, stoic as he watches his fellow push the door open.

Maybe it’s the screams echoing below, the sounds of death that make her shudder.  Maybe it’s the remaining panic from seeing Ilyn Payne, from knowing the Lannisters would kill her after all. Maybe it’s the blood still dripping down her hands, still reminding her she’s helpless. Or maybe it’s the way the second guard stands back, the way yet another person is content to watch her suffer.

Whatever the reason, a spark of rage lights in her belly, moving through her veins and lighting her body on fire. Sansa moves before she can think, lunging for the guard with her blood howling in her ears.

She wants him to scream, wants him to cry, wants him to beg and plead for mercy just as Joffrey made her-

And then the guard is lying on the cold floor, lifeless eyes staring up as blood pours from his torn open throat. The other guard is backing up against the wall, hand reaching towards his sword, but the man is too slow.

Flesh gives way beneath her teeth as he falls, warm blood fills her mouth as she reaches down and rips away the meat.

Licking away the blood, she ignores the way her legs tremble at walking on four feet instead of two, ignores how her mouth feels filled with needles.

 _This is wrong,_  a voice insists, but the wolf ignores it to run forward on unsteady feet. 

* * *

Her prey is caught unaware, sword only halfway raised when the wolf crashes into it, biting at its face as it screams and cries. Soon enough the screams turn to wet gurgles, blood bubbling from its mouth.

Something about her prey is familiar, the white cloak on its back means something, but she doesn’t care. Not when the air reeks of blood, not when screams echo through the city.

Faster and faster the wolf runs through the dirty streets, dodging through the alleys and navigating by the dim light of the full moon. She can smell others, stained with sweat and piss and fear, but she ignores them. They are not red cloaks-they are not worthy prey. 

More of the red cloaks are killed before she stumbles to a halt, bloody paws scrambling to stay upright as another piece of prey goes down. 

 _Stop!_ The same voice insists, and the wolf realizes something important is missing.

She doesn’t know what could be more important than killing them until the scream stops her. There is a man screaming for someone to let him go, screaming to stand and fight. 

There is fury in his voice, raw and unbridled anger, but even more-there is desperation. Desperation that reminds her there is something more important than revenge.

It is easy enough to wade through the bloody water, easy enough to ignore the smell of blood and waste and piss, the sound of dying men and triumphant cheers from the approaching army.

The man still shouts but his voice is growing hoarse, his struggles are growing weaker. Just as he finally goes silent she jumps, scrambling up and landing in a heap on the soaked wood of the boat.

Luckily the men manning the craft don’t notice, seeming to take it as just another rolling wave as she dives for the tarp, resisting the urge to shake the water from her fur all the while. 

The sounds of battle still rage, the men on the ship still mutter, but the wolf settles under the tarp. Taking a last look at the light staining the water, she ducks back under the canvas and curls into a ball.

The wolf may not be safe, but she is free.


	2. Chapter 2

Stannis still sees the Blackwater burn when he closes his eyes.

Foolish, to attack King’s Landing without even sending Davos to investigate first. Foolish, to succumb to the fear of losing his Hand. His sentimentality doomed them from the start.

He should have known the Lannister Imp had a trick up his damned sleeve, he should have known the Lannisters would have offered an alliance to those blasted Tyrells, he should have…

He should have known better.

But he didn’t, and now more than half of his army is lost, dead or imprisoned or even swearing fealty to the false king. Davos is _dead,_  four of the man’s sons are dead, and all for a battle that ended in a humiliating defeat. Men die in war, that is true, but something that feels disconcertingly like regret still claws at him when he thinks of the man’s sons.  

Even Melisandre is no help, the woman refusing all to leave her room, refusing the food offered, refusing to speak to her rightful king! Instead The Witch spends her time watching the fires, searching the flames for a sign from her blasted Red God.

The outline of the bay on the painted table almost seems to mock him, the figurines on the thing seem to taunt him, and Stannis resists the mad urge to send the painted pieces flying. Whatever else he is, he will not be like Robert. He will not indulge in such foolish displays.

 _Ours is the fury, indeed,_  the king thinks bitterly as he slumps in his chair, as his eyes catch on the flames dancing in the hearth, wishing-not for the first time-that he could truly see what the fires show The Red Witch.

“Your grace?” A voice interrupts his thinking, and he looks up to see a guard nervously standing by the door. A Florent from the boy’s ears, though Stannis cannot claim to remember his name.

“What?” He snaps, watching coldly as the guard flinches back before straightening again.

“There’s two of your sailors here, your grace. They-they say they have urgent news.”

Casting one last look at those damned figurines, Stannis shifts his gaze to the fidgeting guard, eyes narrowing. “Send them in.”

* * *

“Your grace,” the pair say in unison, kneeling before standing uncertainty at their king’s impatient gesture. “We…we have dire tidings, your grace.” One says in a quivering voice, the other muttering “dire tidings, dire tidings,” under his breath.

His jaw clenches, his teeth grind so hard his mouth aches, but he speaks all the same. “Speak, then.”

The taller of the two shifts uneasily, casting the raised scars on his arms into the light-doubtless given in the accursed battle-before hesitantly speaking.

“We landed on Dragonstone after the battle, your grace, and there was-”

“There was a wolf,” the shorter one declares, raising his scarred hands. “There was a wolf in the boat! Bigger than a pony, your grace, with blood all over its fur!”

A moment of silence then, Stannis staring his soldiers down, before speaking in a voice cold as ice. 

“You mean to tell me,” the king begins, “that your ‘urgent news’ was nothing but mad ramblings?”

“But-” the shorter one begins before the taller one elbows him, face suddenly filled with fear.

“King’s Landing has no wolves,” Stannis enunciates, speaking carefully as though educating a lackwit. “ _Leave.”_

* * *

Davos is a welcome sight, even with the news of the man’s dead sons casting a pall over their reunion. His hand does not even speak out against Melisandre, merely frowns at the news the woman has not left her rooms.

It is good to see him again, good to know he still lives, and Stannis is merely enjoying the knowledge not everything is lost when a guard clears his throat.

“Your grace,” yet another Florent starts, “there’s some of your farmers here and some of the fishermen. They’re asking for an audience.”

“Send them in,” he replies curtly, Davos standing at his side.

The farmers freeze after the usual courtesies are exchanged, sharing looks with the scarred fishermen that work his waters before one fisherman steps forward.

“Your grace,” the man starts nervously, reaching up to scratch at a graying beard, “We-me and Cooper-we were hauling in the morning’s catch when we turned around and found-we found a wolf catching fish in the water.”

“And, your grace,” one of the framers steps forward, twisting nervously at the hat in his hands, “I came out to feed the chickens, you see, and when I came out I found one of the horses dead in the field, chunks ripped out of it. It was the wolf, it had to be!”

One claim by two maddened sailors he could dismiss easily enough. But multiple claims…that is enough to make him suspicious. If nothing else, Stannis reflects as he shares a look with Davos, it should be an adequate distraction.

* * *

Two days and they have yet to see this mystery wolf. Two days of watching the farmers’ fields and he is tempted to believe these claims are all due to some mass fit of madness.

He is tempted, at least until reports come of deer found dismembered in the woods. After that, things move quickly as horses are fetched and men are armed. One lone wolf should be easy enough to kill, but Stannis is cautious nonetheless, ordering more men than strictly needed for the hunt.

The few hunting hounds left on Dragonstone are old and tired, ill given to hunting anything more difficult than small game. Still, the hounds do well enough, eventually stumbling upon the trail left by the mysterious wolf.

The wolf is clever though, far cleverer than any wolf should be. Stannis sees how the wolf backtracks to throw off their scent, sees how the beast wades through ponds to throw off the hounds, and begins to wonder. He is no hunter, not like Renly or Robert, but a wolf chased by hounds and steel should not be this clever.

It is sheer luck when they eventually find the wolf, the king cantering his horse into a clearing and then stopping suddenly, eyes fixed on the beast feasting on a dead stag.

Even a lackwit could see this is no ordinary wolf. Oh, it looks odd enough. No wolf should have pale red fur, after all. But that is not what makes him freeze. The wolf is huge, nearly as tall as his own horse, and Stannis finds himself freezing, finds himself staring at bright yellow eyes. 

Finally he finds his voice, opening his mouth to call for the archers-

But the beast snaps forward, snarling, and that is enough to startle his horse, the damned thing running even as he pulls fruitlessly on the reins. 

By the time he looks back the wolf is gone, nothing remaining to show its presence but the blood staining the forest floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Cousin Edric had first suggested it, that they sneak out of the castle and into the sparse woods surrounding Dragonstone. Devan had of course protested, knowing father would be furious, but Shireen-

Shireen was tired of being confined to the castle, was tired of not even being allowed to walk the gardens. And all because of a single wolf! Yes, it had so far evaded capture, and yes, it was supposedly quite a bit larger than most. But they had guards for a reason, surely that was enough.

But father had refused, had given her a look that made Shireen quieten immediately, and so she had resigned herself to rereading the books she had and walking the halls with Edric and Devan.

Being confined to the castle was maddening, so frustrating that she even sent Patchface away-to Edric and Devan’s great relief-and she didn’t know how much more she could take.

“The garden,” Shireen says, interrupting Devan and Edric’s bickering. “We’ll go to the garden.”

“Besides-” she adds when Devan looks ready to protest, “we  _would_  still be in the castle.”

He frowns unhappily in response, doubtlessly already imagining what would happen if father caught them, but Devan still nods.

“As you wish, princess,” her father’s squire responds, and Shireen suppresses a frown.

She is the heir of the rightful king, princess of the seven kingdoms, but sometimes she wishes to just be Shireen.

* * *

At four and ten, Cousin Edric is nearly a man grown. Yet he seems a boy as his smile widens, as he bounces on the balls of his feet before darting down the hall.

Luckily all three of them are well acquainted with the guards’ schedules, and it’s easy enough to sneak past, easy enough to hide in the long shadows cast by the dragon statues littering the keep.

When they do reach the garden, Cousin Edric lets out a whoop of laughter, running to the towering trees. Shireen stops though, face tilted up to feel the warmth of the sun, a smile forming on her face without even thinking.

Shireen finally looks back down, gaze catching on Devan’s own face, on the pink staining his cheeks, when a muffled shriek echoes through the garden. Not loud enough to alert the guards, thankfully, but she can still hear the fear in Edric’s voice.

Devan ignores propriety to tug on her hand, to urge her back into the castle. Without thinking, though, she runs towards the scream and towards him, Devan on her heels.

* * *

“Edric!” Devan calls, voice tight with fear as they weave along the winding path, searching fruitlessly for her bastard cousin.

Her father’s squire hears the noise before she does, the choked sob that comes from the grove just ahead of them. Devan hesitates, clearly nervous, but Shireen continues on, determined to see this mad venture through.

* * *

The princess stumbles into the clearing, Devan a step behind her, and freezes, fear coursing through her. Cousin Edric is there, alive and currently unharmed, but the beast in front of him may change that quickly.

_No wonder we were forced inside,_ Shireen thinks, a hysterical laugh nearly bubbling out. This is no ordinary wolf, not when it is even bigger than a pony, not when it is clear the beast could take down multiple men with ease. 

Devan makes a strangled gasp as the wolf steps forward, blood coating its maw as the limp body of a fawn falls to the ground.

Edric has closed his eyes, back against the tree as he reaches behind him, fingers grasping at the bark as the wolf comes closer. Shireen finds herself rooted to the spot and unable to move, unable to think, but she still forces her eyes open, still keeps her gaze on the hulking beast. If she dies, she will die bravely. She will die as a Baratheon should. 

Seconds pass, though it feels like an eternity, as the wolf stalks forward, yellow eyes focused on the princess. 

She can see the blood staining its teeth, can see the gore soaked into its pale red fur, when the wolf stops suddenly. When the wolf stops and  _bows,_ proper as any lord at court.

It’s a mad urge but Shireen steps forward nonetheless, ignoring Devan’s weak attempt to pull her back and Edric’s wide eyes. 

The wolf straightens as she comes closer, its huge body looming over her, and she looks up into its yellow eyes-eyes that seem to gleam with intelligence. 

“Hello,” Shireen manages weakly, doing her best to ignore the shivers wracking her body. The beast huffs at that, almost seeming to laugh, before pulling back to stare at her.

With shaking legs the princess steps forward, hesitantly reaching out a hand as the wolf leans down, long snout pressing into her open hand. The beast’s fur is sticky with blood but Shireen doesn’t move away, instead cautiously stroking her hand down its muzzle.

“Gods be good,” Edric whispers in awe, fingers brushing against the bark as he pushes himself off the tree, stepping forward to meet the wolf. Cousin Edric is the tallest of the three of them but the wolf is larger still, fixing its yellow gaze on him before turning its attention back to Shireen.

“Is-” Devan hesitates, “Is that a direwolf?”

The wolf nods, actually  _nods_  at his words, though it keeps its attention on her.

“A direwolf,” Shireen whispers, “a direwolf on Dragonstone.”

“We need to name it,” Edric proclaims then, interrupting the awed silence in the grove.

“Well…” Devan starts, face still pale and steps shaky even as he steps forward, “is it a boy or a girl?”

Shireen bites back a laugh as her cousin actually checks, gaze dropping to the wolf’s belly before looking back up. 

“A girl,” he confirms, stepping back and reaching out a hand to scratch along its neck.

“Lady,” Shireen says, for the wolf nuzzling into her hand seems a gentle creature despite the blood still coating her fur. “I’ll call you Lady.”


	4. Chapter 4

The battle was meant to end in triumph. Stannis Baratheon would stand no chance against the combined might of the Lannister-Tyrell alliance, and the man would easily be crushed.

Stannis surviving was an unpleasant surprise but not something that mattered much, not when half the man’s forces were dead or had deserted. All in all, it had looked as though the Blackwater battle was a decisive victory for the Lannisters.

With Stannis taken care of, Tywin had already begun to plan. The Tyrells doubtlessly wanted a second chance at making Margaery queen, and Tywin planned to voice his support. After all, the wealth and forces offered by the roses were worth far more than the traitorous brother his grandson’s current betrothed brought with her. 

Yes, Joffrey would marry Margaery and cement the alliance, while the elder Stark girl would be married to Tyrion-his younger son would be all too eager to get a babe on such a beauty. The younger Stark would be married to a Lannister cousin, perhaps Lancel, and with only three marriages Robb Stark’s foolish rebellion would be rendered impotent.

At least, that had been the plan.

“You mean to tell me,” Tywin begins with a voice cold as ice, “that you managed to lose both of the Stark girls?”

“What does it matter?” The idiot boy snaps as he paces back and forth, golden hair gleaming in the light, “the whore is dead.”

“That ‘whore’ was the only thing keeping Robb Stark from killing your uncle.”

“He wouldn’t,” the king says, mouth agape as he pales in unison with his mother.

“Don’t be a fool,” Tywin snaps in return, “those girls were the only reason Robb Stark kept Jaime alive. What do you expect to happen, should the wolf find we don’t have his sisters? What do you expect to happen, should Stark discover one is dead and the other missing?”

“If,” a cough sounds throughout the small council chambers, that doddering fool Pycelle finally speaking up, “if I may, my lord. With no body, we have no proof of Lady Stark’s death.”

 _That_  was an unexpected detail, one his daughter had neglected to mention, and Tywin focuses his attention on the maester.

“When the scene was discovered, my lord, the dead bodies of two guards were found and a pool of blood was on the floor. Lady Stark’s dress was also there, torn to shreds, but we have yet to find her body. Aside from the dress, there is no proof she was harmed at all, not when the blood appears to be solely from the guards.”

“And why,” he asks, flicking his gaze to Cersei, “was the Stark girl not with the other ladies?”

“The girl’s moonblood came on her,” his foolish daughter replies, waving a hand dismissively, “I had no desire to deal with that.”

“So,” Tywin begins, voice beginning to raise, “you just _let_  the girl leave? You didn’t stop and think that it may be a plot, you didn’t stop and think it would be better to have her under watch?”

Red blooms on Cersei’s cheeks, but she presses forward nonetheless, “Sansa Stark was a stupid little girl. There was no way she could have escaped-”

“And yet it seems she did,” Tywin finishes. “Pray she is dead. If she is, we need only deal with Robb Stark’s attempts at revenge.”

* * *

Grandmother had counseled Margaery on just how to deal with Sansa Stark.

_Charm the girl, become the foolish little thing’s closest confidante…and when she trusts you enough, speak of your brother’s own virtues._

Robb Stark’s rebellion would fall soon enough under their forces, and when the Tyrells were victorious, Loras would be married to the key to the north. It was an elegant plan, simple as it was. Soon enough Margaery would be the queen and Loras the warden of the north.

Margaery had been prepared to charm and cajole and outright lie to the Stark girl, to the hostage in all but name. She had been prepared to extol her brother’s talents, to tell of the wonders of Highgarden.

She was not prepared to find the girl dead.

Oh, the Spider’s spies and the roses’ own informants may claim the girl is merely missing. But Margaery thinks of how Renly sneered when his nephew was mentioned, how her former husband described him as a ‘vicious little monster.’ She thinks of the whispers from King’s Landing, of the rumors the king had Sansa Stark stripped and beaten for his amusement, how even worse went on behind closed doors.

A king may kill whores and peasants, but there are some lines that cannot be crossed.

Yet she cannot shake the feeling Joffrey has, she cannot shake the feeling her betrothed has the blood of poor Sansa Stark on his hands.

Margaery has come too far to back down now. She will be not just any queen-she will be _the_ queen. All she has to do is charm the vicious bastard.

All she has to do is survive.

* * *

Varys paces, fingers tapping at his wrist in a nervous tic he thought long gone. The black cells stink of piss and shit, are as dark as the seven hells must be-but the cells are quiet, no one will look for him here, and that is ideal.

That is ideal while he tries to figure out just what happened to Sansa Stark.

Lord Baelish is the obvious suspect, but dear Ros reported Littlefinger’s unfortunate display in front of her, how the man had taken to muttering and pacing before finally fleeing the room. No, it is clear enough that Littlefinger had no hand in the Stark girl’s disappearance.

Disappearance, not death, no matter what the Tyrells believe. Varys knows it is far more likely the girl is dead. He knows it is far more likely that Lady Stark perished on the streets of King's Landing. 

Still, he cannot bring himself to believe the girl dead. Not when his little birds tell of Meryn Trant found with his throat ripped out, not when his spies tell of the Lannister soldiers found mauled and maimed.

He finds himself thinking of the poor girl’s dead direwolf, finds himself remembering the reports of Robb Stark’s own fearsome beast. It seems impossible, it seems like a child’s fancy, but Varys has seen many strange things. 

If a direwolf did manage to sneak into the Red Keep, if a direwolf did manage to spirit Lady Stark away…there is only one question left.

_Where is she?_


	5. Chapter 5

Shireen is brave.

Far braver than she would have been, Sansa admits to herself.

The Sansa of before, the girl in Winterfell, wouldn’t have approached a wolf stained with blood and gore, wouldn’t have dared to actually touch such a wolf.

But the princess-for she is one-is far braver than Sansa ever was, brave enough to touch her, brave enough to  _name_  her. Oh, she makes Sansa miss Arya so much it hurts.

But the younger girl is lonely too, that is plain to see.

Sansa does not know how much time has passed, keeping track of days difficult in this body of a wolf, but she knows it must have been weeks at least. Weeks where sweet Shireen sneaks her meat pies and insists on petting her, weeks where the princess curls up against her bulk and reads to her.

Shireen is so obviously, painfully lonely, and it makes her think of King’s Landing, of being shunned for traitor’s blood, of being shunned so Joffrey wouldn’t punish them as well.

The girl deserves better.

“Lady!” Shireen interrupts her musings, approaching with a tome in her hand. The boy with her coloring and the one nervous one-Edric and Devan, she thinks their names are-are not with her, but the princess seems pleased nonetheless. Carefully settling down on the grass next her, Shireen unwraps a pie from her stained cloth, smiling as Sansa daintily tugs it from her.

Sansa has already gorged herself on stags and doe, on horses and fish. But her manners are still there, locked away beneath the wolf’s own needs, and so she takes it from the princess, swallowing the thing in one bite before tilting her head to bare her neck.

The wolf is a ruthless thing, a bestial thing, but it will calm for the opportunity to have Shireen scratch at her neck.

“It’s good to see you,” the little princess continues, a sad smile on her face as she runs her fingers along pale red fur. “Father is upset because Lady Melisandre won’t talk to him and he fought with mother over it. Even Ser Davos barely talks.”

“I think,” the girl pauses then, fingers dropping to brush along her book, “I think-I don’t know if we can win this war. Father is the rightful king but no one seems to  _care_.”

 _Of course they don’t care,_  Sansa thinks with a now familiar sadness.

In the stories the rightful king would win, in the stories Joffrey would lose his throne. But life is not a song.

Trying to chase away her maudlin thoughts, she leans down to nudge at the book in Shireen’s lap, huffing when the girl draws it away.

“It’s a history of House Baratheon,” the princess says with a smile. “I still don’t know how much you understand, but I thought you might like it.”

Brave, thoughtful, kind…she knows Shireen would be a fine queen, would make the realm love her. She only hopes Stannis Baratheon is like his daughter.

* * *

“And then Argella Durrandon was brought to the Baratheon camp,” Shireen reads aloud, fingers tracing along the pages. “Bound and naked was the last Storm Queen, but Orys Baratheon removed her chains and gave her his cloak, speaking only praise of her father’s courage and her own determination.”

“And when the Conquest was concluded,” she continues, shifting against the wolf’s bulk, “Orys and Argella were married, Orys taking the sigil and shield of her father to honor her house.”

Silence reigns as she stares at the pages, unseeing as she thinks.

“The songs say Argella and Orys grew to love each other,” the princess finally says, turning to look at Lady’s yellow eyes. “I am father’s heir, I will have to marry. Whoever marries me will be a king, won’t he? Men have died for a crown, men will do anything to sit on the iron throne. But I just want someone who wants me,” Shireen confides to the wolf, book now abandoned as she cuddles against Lady’s side. “It doesn’t have to be love. But I want a certain fondness, I want him to like me.”

Shireen hesitates, gnawing at her lip, before finally speaking. “I want more than what mother and father have.”

Lady keens, low and sorrowful, and the girl turns to look at her wolf.

“Don’t worry,” she says, comforting herself as much as the wolf she leans against. “Father refused to betroth me to Robert Arryn. I won’t be married for a while yet.” 

 _Not unless father seeks more men through marriage,_  Shireen thinks and promptly pushes aside.

When the time comes she will do her duty, just as as her parents have done.

* * *

Shireen is missing. His heir, his daughter, is missing.

Thoughts of assassins and Lannister plots cloud his mind, even with Melisandre’s assurance that no Lannister would manage to harm his only child. Not when the guards have scoured every inch of Dragonstone and his daughter is nowhere to be found.

Pacing back and forth, Stannis ignores Davos’ attempts at calming him, teeth grinding as he searches for something-anything that could explain her disappearance.

He has no luck, at least until Devan and the Storm's muttering becomes too loud to ignore.

“What is it?” Stannis snaps, whirling to Devan looking shocked and the bastard stunned.

“The princess-”

“Don’t tell him!” the other boy hisses, voice angry, but that is enough.

“Devan,” Stannis warns lowly, and the boy easily crumbles beneath his look.

“She’s been in the gardens, your grace,” the boy admits. “We know the guard schedules, you see, so it’s easy to avoid them.” Devan trails off under his father’s disapproving stare, Edric’s gaze has turned mulish, but Stannis ignores them both.

His daughter was a dutiful child, well mannered and obedient. She should have known better than to indulge in such folly.

A reprimand already on his tongue, it takes next to no time to enter the gardens, next to no time to follow the faint sound of girlish laughter.

His planned scolding dies on his tongue, however, his sword in hand before he can think at the sight of the beast next to Shireen.

“No!” His daughter cries out with a scowl, the book in her hand falling to the grass. “Don’t touch Lady.”

“Lady?!” Stannis demands, staring at the hulking wolf that only gazes at him with yellow eyes-eyes that now seem eerily intelligent.

Shireen, the foolish girl, actually dares to stand between him and the wolf glaring up at Stannis with narrowed eyes.

“Yes,” she replies, crossing her arms as she looks up at her father. “Her name is Lady. You’d know that if you’d paid any attention! I’ve been sneaking out to see her for weeks!” Shireen spits out before realizing just what she’s said, hand flying up to cover her mouth.

“That thing is dangerous,” he counters, eyeing the wolf as it slowly stands to loom over her.

“You’re dangerous,” Shireen retorts with a scowl. “You’ve killed people and I  _know_ she hasn’t. Everyone says she’s been avoiding the farmers and fishermen.”

“Shireen,” he warns once again, his patience sorely tested, but the stubborn girl refuses to move, acting as though she can actually protect the thing.

Their standoff, loathe as he is to call it such, is interrupted by the soft sound of slippers on the grass.

“My king,” Melisandre greets him then, “princess.”

The Red Witch has finally left her rooms but Stannis is far more concerned with the wolf so close to his daughter.

Still, the mad woman actually steps forward to meet the beast, eyes bright as she looks at it.

Slowly, as though wary of startling it, Melisandre lays a hand on its muzzle, a satisfied smile quirking her lips when the wolf doesn’t react, only staring back in turn.

“This wolf,” the lady finally speaks, “is needed here.”

“Needed?” Stannis demands, though his sword falters at that.

“I have seen a red wolf running through the flames, I have seen the false king Joffrey fall beneath its jaws.”

“But you didn’t see the Imp’s trick,” he counters with a glare, and the red priestess turns to look at him at that.

“Does it matter? If the flames are true then this wolf will help you, my king. If the vision is not, well, it already seems quite fond of the princess.”

“She,” Shireen interrupts. “Her name is Lady.”

“A fine name,” the red woman praises her, and he doesn’t bother to hide his sigh, reluctantly sheathing his blade.

“You will be supervised by at least three guards,” Stannis instructs his daughter, “whenever you come to see  _Lady._  The wolf is not allowed inside, either.”

“Of course, father,” Shireen says, beaming in delight as the wolf pulls away from Melisandre to step forward and sniff at the king.

The priestess may think it useful, his daughter may be fond of it, but Stannis knows, as he looks into its eyes, that the beast will be far more trouble than it’s worth.


	6. Chapter 6

Why were the men in her family such thundering great fools?

Loras had advocated joining the Lannisters simply because he wanted revenge on Stannis, the boy convinced the rival king had murdered his own brother. Stannis was many things, Olenna admits, but she fancies even he would balk at kinslaying.

Loras wanted to tie themselves to the lions masquerading as stags just for the chance to kill a king…and then there was Mace. Oh, the oaf of Highgarden had truly outdone himself this time.

Her foolish son had insisted Margaery could handle Joffrey, never mind the rumors and whispers from King’s Landing of the boy stripping his betrothed before the court, of having the poor girl beaten bloody.

Her granddaughter was a master, Olenna would give her son that, but it still made her uneasy.

She was uneasy when hearing the rumors of the mummer’s stag and she is furious now.

The Spider may have his own little birds but the roses have people as well. The roses have people as well, and they all say the same thing.

A pool of blood, a dress torn to shreds-and a mad boy on the throne. The pieces fall into place so neatly, painting such a  _vivid_  picture.

Poor Margaery has spent the past few weeks on the brink of a fit, the girl doubtlessly worrying over her own future. After all, if the mad king would kill his own betrothed, what is stopping him from killing the next?

They cannot back out though, not when her idiot son has already promised a Tyrell alliance.

 _And so Mace rides House Tyrell off a cliff,_  Olenna thinks wryly, gaze fixed on Margaery delicately nibbling on a cake, her eyes haunted.

“Lady Olenna,” a voice interrupts her thoughts and she turns, catching sight of Littlefinger.

“Littlefinger,” Olenna greets him, eyeing the hideous satin cape he wears, the yellow fabric covered almost entirely in mockingbirds.

“Tell me,” she starts, “Is that bird the new sigil of House Baelish? Or is it just so whores can easily find you?”

 _“Grandmother,”_ Margaery hisses, broken from her stupor, but Olenna only waves a dismissive hand at the girl.

The man chuckles, the sound painfully false, before aiming an oily smile at the both of them. “I admit it helps, Lady Olenna,” he repeats.

“Not that we aren’t delighted by your presence,” she cuts in, voice arch, “but I find it…curious, for the master of coin to seek us out.”

Not her best work, she’ll admit, but Joffrey is leaving them all unsettled.

“Can I not be here simply to congratulate our future queen?” The damned man says with another insufferable smile, and that is near enough to make her composure snap.

“What do you want, Littlefinger?” Olenna asks flatly, for once in no mood for games.

The weasel of a man chuckles again. “It is not a matter of what I want but rather what  _you_  want.”

_I’m far too old for this._

“And what do we want?” She asks, voice impatient.

“Lord Tywin believes Lady Sansa is still alive,” the man says instead. “He is apparently quite eager to find his grandson’s previous love.”

 _Hostage,_  the word hangs in the air but goes unsaid.

“I find it to be an unusual case of optimism on his part,” Littlefinger continues, “given the state of the scene.”

She can see Margaery’s fingers clench, nails digging into her palms.

“And how does that relate to us, exactly?”

“The Lannisters do enjoy reminding us they have claws, don’t they? Perhaps it is time they learn the roses have thorns.”

Oh, she knows  _exactly_  what the man is implying. Just as she knows their house will go the way of the Reynes and Tarbecks if Tywin ever suspects the same.

“Tell me more.”

* * *

Roslin is beautiful. 

It makes sense, Robb admits, for the Freys to offer a beautiful daughter to be a queen.

She is beautiful, and still Robb cannot bring himself to care.

His new wife is beautiful, yes, but is she kind? Is she generous? Does she like to laugh, does she have a quick wit?

More importantly, will she prove worthy of the north?

Robb loves his mother but even he admits she still clings stubbornly to the customs of the south. Even he admits marrying not only a southerner but a Frey will create even more discontent among his bannermen.

Even so, father is dead and Joffrey on the throne, his sisters are still trapped in King’s Landing.

They need this alliance, and so Robb puts aside his dream of marrying for love, so he wraps a Stark cloak around the Frey girl.

“And so I take you for my lady and wife,” Robb recites as the septon wraps a cloth around their hands.

“And so I take you for my lord and husband,” beautiful Roslin replies, cheeks flushed prettily.

Her kiss is sweet, her eyes are bright with happiness, and yet Robb finds it hard to care.

_Heavy is the head that wears the crown._

* * *

Roslin wakes with the dawn, a habit every Frey girl acquires early.

Yet she has no chores this morning, no duties for the other girls foist on her-not when she is a  _queen._

Catching sight of her new husband, she blushes, thinking back to the night before. Robb had been so kind, so gentle, had brought her to completion with nothing but his fingers and his tongue.

He had kissed her  _down there_. Oh, Fair Walda would be so jealous!

And yet only a blind man would miss the sadness in her new husband’s eyes, only a lackwit could miss the grief he carries like a shroud.

 _May the warrior guide his blade,_ Roslin prays as her fingers trace along her king’s arms.  _May the smith keep him safe. May the father grant him justice._

And, she thinks as she remembers her goodmother’s lost look and her own husband’s grief,  _may the maiden grant his sisters safety._

She wants to meet the the sisters he loves so much, wants to meet little Arya with her wild nature, half a wolf pup and half a girl. She wants to meet Sansa with her love of songs and sweetness plain for all to see.

 _Maiden guide them,_  Roslin prays,  _for we cannot._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter than usual but i hope all of you still enjoy it!

The Red Woman brought her god to Dragonstone, and her magic came with her.

He watched as she drank poison as though it was nothing more than water, as shadows crawled from her womb to do her bidding, as his king saw images dance in the flames.

Davos was certain, rather foolishly he will admit, that nothing more could surprise him, not after his grace took Melisandre into his service.

Yet he still finds himself staring at the sight before him.

The way the wolf towers over most men is certainly enough to inspire fear, the pale red fur is certainly queer. But Davos finds himself worrying more at the intelligence he finds lurking in the beast’s yellow eyes.

The princess seems utterly enchanted, a smile contorting the scales on her face as she reaches up to scratch at the wolf’s fur. The guards’ hands move to their weapons when the beast moves again, but it only settles its head on Shireen’s shoulder with a huff that sounds eerily like a laugh.

The wolf seems just as enchanted with Shireen and equally unlikely to harm her, if what his son confessed was true. 

Melisandre thinks the wolf useful, the princess is completely charmed, and yet Davos cannot think it harmless.

The beast lays down at a quiet word from Shireen, as obedient as any hound, and the princess turns to him then, a smile still on her face.

“Ser Davos,” Shireen says, her voice bright with rare happiness, “would you like to pet Lady?”

“Lady?” He asks, watching as the wolf stops nuzzling at her hair to turn its eerie gaze on him.

“She bowed when we found her,” the princess replies easily, hand still curled around pale red fur. “She was gentle and kind, like a proper lady.”

The beast _bowed._

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Davos realizes the truth. It may not be the Red Woman’s magic, but the beast is magic all the same.

Still, he steps forward, gaze wary as the wolf looks back at him, yellow eyes still shining with an unsettling intelligence.

“Hello,” Davos manages weakly, still staring at the beast as he reaches out a hand to settle on its back.

Emboldened by the wolf staying still, he digs his fingers deeper into its fur. And then stops suddenly, eliciting a worried look from the princess as he freezes.

It seems impossible but he can feel the raised skin all too well, fingers tracing along the scars littering its back.

“Who did this to you?” He mutters lowly before berating himself-it’s not like the beast can respond.

The wolf only huffs in response, eyes seeming almost _sad_ , before lowering its head to the ground.

The beast is obviously magic, it can clearly protect itself, and yet Davos still feels a sudden burst of protectiveness.

Well, Marya always said he had a habit of picking up strays. She just didn't mean it as literally as this. 

* * *

The Lord of Light works in strange ways. She has known that for decades, just as she knows the visions in the flames are unpredictable things, not always interpreted correctly.

Yet she has seen this very wolf running through the flames, blood stained on her fur. Melisandre thought it a warning, a sign the Starks would attack. She thought that, at least until the false king fell under its  jaws, screaming as flesh tore and blood soaked the iron throne.

The meaning is clear but still she wonders just how the wolf will help. Her king is unlikely to take the wolf into battle like Robb Stark is said to do, and even more unlikely to storm King’s Landing with the forces he currently has.

It could be a sign to ally with the Starks, with the so called king and his ever present wolf. That makes sense and yet…

Yet she sees the intelligence in the wolf’s eyes all too clearly. Yet she knows with a chilling certainty the wolf must be as intelligent as any human.

She has spent years upon years studying the art of magic, has seen everything from the arts of the shadowbinders of Asshai to the sorceries of the Undying Ones. No magic exists that could turn beasts in men or men into beasts.

The suspicion only grows, though, as she watches the princess interact with the wolf, as she hears the smuggler’s voice grow soft as he recounts the scars littering its skin.

 _Who are you?_ Melisandre cannot help but wonder. _Who are you, for the Lord of Light to send you to us?_


End file.
